Chapter 31 Phoenix
PHOENIX
Just then Jagg pushed through the door.
Wearing a beanie, black leather jacket, and combat boots, Jagg breezed up to the bar looking more like his former Navy SEAL self than a jacked-up sleuth.
New ink peeked out of his collar, connecting to the tattoos that covered his torso and arms. Jagg loved his ink.
Gage was behind him, stopping to chat with a couple off-duty cops about a client he’d recently taken who was getting severely bullied at high school.
“Private dick.” Ax nodded to Jagg as they shook hands.
“Mister private dick to you.” His hand clamped my shoulder. “How you doing?”
I dipped my chin.
The detective settled into the seat next to me and ordered a beer from the blushing bartender.
“Anything new on the chicken case?” Ax asked him.
The ‘Chicken Case’ was the name given to the string of electrocuted chicken parts being washed up all over town. The citizens were on edge, and rightly so. Spirit and I had ridden up on one of the headless animals earlier in the week. Not pretty.
Jagg released an exhale, a brief, rare display of fatigue in the man’s demeanor.
Max Jagger was a legendary SEAL in the Navy, a ruthless soldier who led each mission as if it were his last, and when he’d gotten out, he’d carried that resolve to his new job as a homicide detective.
Jagg had a wicked—and I do mean wicked—intelligence that helped him put together pieces of a puzzle that no one else even noticed were there.
The man put his life into his work, and although he’d never admit it, I believed he got too connected to his cases.
Took each case personally. A challenge, or perhaps a vigilante need for justice for those who could no longer speak.
“Well, we now know how the chickens were dismantled.” Jagg said.
“Phoenix’s axe outside?” Ax quipped.
“Scissors. The sick bastard cut them to pieces before, and after, electrocuting them. Like a mad scientist.”
“Sick. Are you heading up the case? I thought you only worked homicides.”
“The fried chickens potentially link to one of my homicides.” His gaze flickered to me. I noticed.
Ax signaled for Frank. “Well, I say spending the day in chicken guts gets you a free shot.”
“Chicken guts were only half my day. The other six hours were spent sitting out in my truck trying to get a bead on the kingpin of a local meth ring.”
“I thought your mom moved away,” I quipped. It felt good. Like the old me.
Ax laughed.
Jagger grinned. “Ah, well, how sweet, Feen. Looks like someone’s getting their sense of humor back. Feelin’ okay after that one? Need to stretch first next time?”
Gage walked up. “Guy needs more than a good stretching.”
A crowd had gathered around the bar, all the five o’clockers stopping in on their way home.
The bartender joined us, nodded to Jagg and Gage. “Howdy do, boys. Whiskey?”
“Doubles.”
“The usual. Got it. More water, Phoenix?”
Before I could shake my head—
“Ice Water? Phoenix Steele drinking water? Well, I’ll be a son of a—”
Before the drunk cowboy behind us could finish his slurred sentence, Ax, Gage, and Jagg spun around, a chorus of barks at my back.
“You got a fucking problem with that, son?”
“Yeah, ice water; the same temperature of your girlfriend’s—”
“Ever had a colonic, Conner? Bend over.”
The last one from Gage. Funny how the guy could work an asshole or a nipple into any conversation.
The old Phoenix would have been the first to throw a punch. Not that night. That night…
Create a calm environment for yourself… Rose’s voice. Again.
The crowd took a step back and the boys turned back toward me.
Jagg kicked over the stool next to him, signaling to everyone that no one else was welcome at that side of the bar.
I sipped my water, and for the first time, I felt proud of myself for not reacting. Rose would have been proud.
I turned my attention to Jagg—the entire reason I was there. “Did you get the name of the owner of that ranch house on the east side of Shadow Mountain?”
After Rose’s little midnight escape the night before—when she snuck out, drove to that isolated house, and was hugged at the door by someone I couldn’t see—I’d had Wolf and Jagg dig into the property. I needed to know who she was visiting. And more importantly, whether that person was a threat.
Wolf’s initial pull said the place belonged to an LLC that hadn’t seen any deposits or withdrawals in over a decade.
“The LLC belonged to a small vet clinic once owned by a guy named George Wallace,” Jagg said. “Veterinarian. Died fifteen years ago.”
“Dead?”
Jagg nodded. “According to state death records, yep.”
I frowned. “Someone’s living there now—and I need to know who. And if they’ve ever had a record.”
“Give me a few hours.”
“Thanks.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Does this have anything to do with Rose Floris and the Kline and Associates client list Gunner gave me to run criminal checks on?”
“Yes. Did anything come up?”
“You’re asking if I found any criminal records connected to the clientele of a mental health facility?”
I deadpanned, letting him know I wasn’t in the mood.
“Short answer, yes.” He said. “And it will take some time to filter through them all.”
“Was there any that stood out? Breaking and entering, peeping toms, loitering on private property?”
“A few B&Es at a liquor store and pharmacy. Go figure. There were two harassment charges.”
“Stalking?”
He nodded. “Former exes who couldn’t let go. One got a restraining order.”
“Pull both of their addresses for me.”
“Done. One address is the state pen, the other six feet underground. Heroin overdose.”
Dammit. No leads.
If Josh wasn’t Rose’s stalker, and none of her clients were, then who? Someone from her past? Or perhaps some pervert who’d seen her around town. Rose was stunning. Smart. Alluring. Easy to form an attachment to. An obsession.
Jagg continued, “I did find something when I chatted with the owners of a few shops around town that sell electronics.”
My back straightened.
He took a drink of his whiskey—always neat—then said, “A mini spy cam was purchased from Tad’s Tool Shop last week.”
“Tell me you’ve got a name.”
“Nope.”
“Security footage?”
He reached in his back pocket and slapped a grainy black and white image on the bar top.
“You got it? That’s it? That’s him, the guy who purchased it?”
“You’re welcome.”
I stared down at one-half of a dark silhouette walking into Tad’s Tool Shop—the other half out of camera view. The person was wearing a baseball cap and dark jacket with the collar flipped up. Couldn’t even see the bottom-half of the body.
Jagg continued, “Darth Vader here walked into Tad’s exactly six minutes before the recorder was purchased last Wednesday.”
“There isn’t another security camera in the store?”
“One. Broken.”
“Why the hell is the angle so off on this picture?”
“Someone drove a backhoe through Tad’s front door. Knocked it off center.”
“Why didn’t Tad fix it?” Because that was more curious than someone driving a loader through his shop.
“Says he never checks the thing. Considers the revolver under the cash register security enough.”
Like every other citizen of Berry Springs.
“What about street cams?” I asked.
Jagg cocked his head. “Dude, I’ve kinda got this other job to do. You know, real cases, with real threats, that involve real police reports.”
“What did the customer pay with? Can we track that?”
“Darth paid with a Visa gift card. Untraceable—with our resources, anyway—and I really don’t think the Feds are gonna be willing to do you solid on this one.”
Gage, who’d finally joined the conversation, hovered over my shoulder. “Why are you so sure it’s a man?”
I blinked, staring down at the photo.
He continued, “You can’t even determine the height or weight from that angle. Can’t even tell if there’s hair under that collar.”
“Are you saying you think it could be a woman videotaping Rose?”
“Rose, huh? Not Doctor Hot-Pants, huh?” Gage chided, chuckling. “Just joking. Seriously, though, why couldn’t it be another woman filming her?”
“Because this isn’t your bedroom, Gage.”
Gage laughed.
Jagg took us back to the point. “You know the situation better than any of us. Any idea on the motive? Regardless of a man or a woman? Why would someone break into her house and want to record her?”
“There’s only one reason someone hides a camera in a woman’s bedroom.”
“Is there, Phoenix? Maybe this isn’t just some pervert. Maybe she has something he—or she—wants. Maybe someone is keeping tabs on her because Dr. Floris knows something about them that they don’t want to get out.”
I chewed on that for a moment, my mind drifting to the bomb she dropped about her childhood spent in foster care, and the mystery late night visit to the ranch house. One thing was for sure, Rose had secrets, and I needed to get to the bottom of them.
Jagg took a sip of my water. “Not bad. Anyway, you gotta step out of your possessive bubble and start thinking like a detective, Feen.”
“Who says I’m possessive?”
“The fist your hand curled into when Gage called her Doctor Hot-Pants.” He looked at Gage, who had already shifted focus to the drink he was ordering.
I squinted at the detective. “What are you leaving out, Jagg?”
His lack of response told me my instinct was correct.
“Tell me.”
“How well do you know this woman that’s got you sleeping outside her house, drinking water instead of whiskey, and pulling on these strings for?”
I opened my mouth, but paused.
“Exactly,” he jabbed a finger into the air.
“Do you happen to know anything about her relationship with Andrew McGregor? The dead guy you and her so ironically stumbled onto? The guy who was stabbed to death in the temple with a damn pair of scissors? Do you know that she went on a date with him a few weeks ago?”
“What?”
“Yep. They went for coffee nine days ago. Then, the next week, he was brutally murdered.”
“Are you sure about the date?”